Assassin's Creed - Shadows
by Weskron
Summary: In the War of 1812, a lone assassin known as Pierre Guirard Christophe is tasked with the assassination of one General Robert Ross, an English general and Templar Master encroaching upon American soil. But when he finds himself locked up in a grueling battle, will he have found more than he bargained for?


Assassin's Creed: Shadows.  
Date: September Ninth-Twelfth, 1814.  
Weather: Sunny to Stormy.

September Ninth…  
10:20 PM.

Many men wearing red, British soldier uniforms sit silently on a boat named the HMS Royal Oak attempting to transport them to the coast of Maryland to rally with the British troops to take the city of Baltimore, which, at the moment, houses the main American Government including President James Madison. On the ship General Robert Ross, the is busy thinking up with a battle plan for his troops once they arrive to the battle with his fellow commanding officers.

"We will land on the Back River, North, attacking Dyer's riflemen from the behind," Ross explained, tracing his finger across his desired path on the map laid out before them on the wicker table.

Rear Admiral George Cockburn, the second in command of the Royal Navy's American Station, who usually accompanied Ross on his endeavors, shook his head. He traced another path.

"The Americans will expect that, Robert. No commander, even one half at his normal capacity, would position his or her troops facing away from the river against a force arriving by sea!" George almost squealed, obviously frustrated with General Ross' overused tactics.

"With all due respect, Mr. Cockburn, the American Army is not exactly a fount of tactical experts. Hell, their most respected military leaders used plans borrowed from the savages of the woods for Pete's sake!" Ross retaliates, almost snorting as he spits out the last of his words.

"I'm sorry Robert, but it seems like you're using the same strategies you used during the Peninsular Wars, don't you think? This seems very derivative, if not the exact same, from the Battle of-" At the exact moment of the word "Battle" Ross slams his fist onto the table, knocking over a large glass of Jamaican Rum.

"I am the leader of these men, Mr. Cockburn! I fought in the Peninsular Wars, the wars that actually meant something, and won them for us for a reason! I was sent here by one of those goddamn Master Templars to fight against these low-life Americans. And I agreed! And as long as I command these troops under these hellish conditions, I will expect you to follow my orders, do I make myself clear, Mr. Cockburn?" Ross roars, his anger that he has obviously held in for long time spills out in the form of words.

Mr. Cockburn shakes his head slightly and rubs his sideburns lightly. His eyes indicate his conscience and his inner reasoning are battling to come up with a valid response and conclusion to the situation.

"You made yourself clear, General," The Admiral replied and hastily walked out of the room. A servant rushes over to clean up the mess.

"Little ungrateful fuck! Thinks he knows everything. He's half my age for God's sake!" Ross grumbles to himself as he pours another glass of Jamaican Rum.

~A~

Two Days Later…  
September 11th…  
9:35 AM

A man wearing a gray duster with a split coattail, a black vest, a white button up shirt, two black bracers, gray gloves, black pants, gray boots, a sash with throwing knives on the front of it, a belt filled with assorted weapons, and a gray hood jutting out from his cloak crouches over a scenic area near the very north of Baltimore on a cliffside, in the frontier.

In his hands, he's holding a pen and a journal. He scribbles down his thoughts and the sun sheds a little more light on his face. Under the dark hood lies a handsome face with a thin black beard, medium length hair, and striking blue eyes that seem to stare into your soul when seen. The sun shines its light elsewhere, the hood shadowing it.

His journal entry reads as follows…

 _Dear Reader,_

It has been five days since I have set foot in a city or town. I am closing in on my target, General Robert Ross, a high-ranking Templar in the Order. Ross is a General in the Royal Army, apprenticing another up and coming Templar, a sub target of mine, Colonel Arthur Brooke.

Ross is reluctant to be here in the first place, having just fought off the French in the Napoleonic and Peninsular Wars. The Americans are just as weary, their symbol of patriotism, the White House, being burned before their eyes. I am sad to say I was not able to stop the events of that tragic day from happening. I still have dreams of the men and women being killed as their capital burns in front of their eyes.

Therefore, I will slip in under the guise of battle, wait for the right moment, and strike.

I pray this will not be my last entry. Well, if God is in fact there, I will try to contact him. Somehow I doubt it.

As always,  
Pierre Guirard Christophe, Assassin.

*Translated from French*

Pierre, the man who is apparently of the Assassin Order, puts the journal in his pocket along with the pen. He stands up and leaps off the edge of the cliff. An eagle screeches above as he puts his hands in front of him. He grabs a branch of a tall tree, causing the momentum of the leap of faith to transfer to swinging off of the branch.  
The Assassin lands into a roll on the rocky dirt below the tree. He sprints across the forest ground, his form turning into an unnoticeable blur through the trees and falling leaves of a new season. Pierre slips through a fallen tree trunk's branches gracefully and continues on his trek across the Eastern American Frontier.

~X~

One Day Later…  
September Twelfth…  
2:35 PM.

Major Richard Heath, a respected individual in the American Military, rides forward with two hundred and fifty men and a crew managing a cannon. They ride quickly to the landing spot of a ship known as the HMS Royal Oak.

The hastened attack all started with General John Stricker hearing of British soldiers raiding nearby camps while the majority of them are eating a meal. A vulnerable and divided force within a several mile radius. Naturally, it was too good an opportunity to pass up, so the General sent Heath along with two companies of riflemen and a cannon, just in case.

Heath had been feeling ill for the past fortnight, but has been fighting it off ever since that first sneeze. When he received his orders to attack the British on this day, he was very hesitant. He was not at his best and he had a feeling Stricker knew this. Was the General desperate enough to sacrifice one of his own, handpicked, Commanders? If so, are the Americans any better than the oppressive British Empire? The civilization that throws out Generals and Admirals to battle as if they were nothing more than shit?

No, he must be mistaken. Surely one of our most respected commandants has more integrity than a thieving criminal framing a childhood friend of his. Surely.

"Major Heath! We're approaching the battleground!" A soldier from one of the companies taking point yells back to the mounted man.

"Get ready men! This battle will be written in History Books for generations to come! Your brave tales of heroism shall be sung by men and women for ages!" The Major bellows at his soldiers who all rowdily cheer back at him. "This is our battle, men! This is for America!"

The riled up soldiers all yell in false hope at their current commander and burst from the forest into the open battleground. Heath watches as his men take up positions, such as their coveted 'Box' formation. A crew readies the Cannon they had brought with them near the mounted Major.

"Ready your weapons, men!" Major Heath roars to his soldiers and the Cannon crew next to him as thunder booms overhead, clouds darkening the landscape, with rain muddying all of their visions.

The crew pulls a cannon ball from the car that helped bring the Cannon over here in the first place. One of the men has already lit the fuse, the fire witling it down little by little. The men drop the cannon ball into the barrel and the crew covers their ears. Down below, the soldiers have their shots in their sights. They breathe heavily as the rain starts to pour down heavy.

"Fire!" Major Heath yells as he unsheathes his cavalry sword.

The cannon booms out it's explosive ball of death and the soldiers' M1819 Hall Rifles shoot out their over fifty caliber bullets into unsuspecting British bodies.

The Battle has Begun…

~X~

General Robert Ross, at this moment, should be eating a late meal. He had just gotten back from hearing a scout's report that the area was all clear and that the raiding party he had sent out should be returning in a couple of hours. He was looking forward to sitting down and sipping on a bowl of warm soup and dipping bread in the broth while relaxing for the rest of the day. But sadly, as it usually seems, Ross didn't get what he wanted.

Ross had just gotten down to eating in the dining hall of the HMS Royal Oak when he heard a powerful boom followed by repetitive gunshots. He jumps from his seat immediately. He listens for a second longer before he points at a dark skinned slave.

"You! What the hell is going on outside?"

The slave, obviously not fluent in the English language, shrugs nervously. Ross waves his hand dismissively at the man and looks through a porthole near him. He is met with the vision of Major Heath's force blindsiding his own, slightly smaller force of men.

"How the hell did that amount of men get past our scouts!?" Ross yells at no one in particular. "By God…"

Ross licks his lips and starts to ready himself for battle. Rear Admiral George Cockburn, already prepared, followed by the younger Colonel Arthur Brooke, also prepared, rushes into the room with a look of confusion on his face.

"Robert? What the hell is going on?" He asks, trying to sneak a peek through the porthole himself.

"I'll tell you what's going on, our men are being slaughtered by Americans! Damn dogs, no better than Savages!" Ross screams at them as he starts to grab his flintlock pistol. Colonel Brooke reaches out and grabs Ross' wrist just before he can grip the pistol.

"You're not seriously thinking of going out there and pushing onward are you?" Arthur asks him.

"Well there isn't much bloody else to do!" Ross retorts hysterically.

Ross rips free from his grip and holsters the pistol. He continues to prepare himself.

"Think this over, Robert. We can't take them on alone, we will be destroyed! Our troops are in panic and our only hope of surviving this is to get the main army on our side!" The Admiral explains, trying to shake Ross out of his panic.

"Main army… yes… yes! I'll take a small squad with me to get the main army to help us. Yes! I'll head out as soon as I can," Ross exclaims giddily as he hastens to get ready.

The Admiral nods as Arthur goes to help General Ross. Mr. Cockburn walks over to the porthole and makes a slight gesture to the forest with his hand, his middle finger on his palm. Obviously, the Admiral is signaling and unknown someone lurking in the shadows of the forest…

~X~

Pierre, seeing his ally's signal from the porthole of the HMS Royal Oak, nods and pulls the hood of his duster over his head. He stands up and grabs his ghost white horse. He pulls himself up onto the saddle, grabbing the leather reins between his hands.

"Hyah!" Pierre yells.

At the age-old signal, the horse gallops through the last barrier of trees in the forest. Pierre's face shadowed, his hood hides the initial moment of fear, seeing the battlefield unfold in front of him. Many men, young or old, dying for their countries. What is the point?

Major Heath, now riding around the rear line of riflemen, shouting incomprehensible sayings, trying to boost morale. Before he can utter something else out, his eyes catch Pierre riding into the battlefield in the distance. He stops for a moment, looking at the young man shrouded in a long, dark cloak riding a very white colored horse.

"He rides in on a pale horse…" Heath murmurs under his breath before shaking his head, realizing the rider was not one of theirs. He points to one formation of soldiers. "Men! Fire on the man riding the white horse! Fire!"

The Men take aim, but Pierre catches the action just in time to leap off of his horse, letting his mount barrel into British and American soldiers.

"We can't shoot! He disappeared behind our soldiers!" One of the soldiers shouts out to Heath.

"What?" Heath grunts and uses his binoculars to see Pierre's jump ending as he lands on top of a British soldier.

As the British soldier falls to the ground, Pierre falls into a roll, grabbing the British soldier's pike from the ground in the process. He ends the roll and artfully stabs a British rifleman in the heart. He uses the pike in the dead soldier's chest to pull the body closer to him as American soldiers take aim. The bullets fly, but are all imbedded in the corpse's body.  
Pierre's hands slide back on the shaft of the pike, and he swings the body, using the pike, and throws the corpse into two other men. He spins around and, using the momentum of the spin, deflects a bayonet on a rifle. In mid deflection, he pushes his hand out onto the soldier's shoulder, and a hidden blade springs out of his bracer, stabbing into flesh. The man screams and his hands tighten around the rifle, giving Pierre the opportunity to spin his waist around, deflect a hatchet attack, and have another hidden blade pop out of the other bracer and stab into the man's waist. The other soldier screams in pain and Pierre grabs the first rifleman's rifle and jerks the bayonet back into the other soldier's stomach, incapacitating him. Pierre turns to the rifleman still holding the rifle and cuts off his shocked cry for help with a hidden blade to the neck.

"Ready your weapons!" A rifleman yells to his formation.

Pierre rips the hidden blade out of the soldier's neck and spins around to see a formation of six men, near the HMS Royal Oak, taking aim at him.

"Shit," Pierre grunts and immediately, his vision turns from his normal everyday vision to one his ancestors call 'Eagle Vision'.

"Fire!" The soldier yells and the formation pulls hard down on their triggers.

Pierre, identifying the bullets using his Eagle Vision, ducks and sways gracefully under every large bullet, and sprints out of the way of more bullets. A cannon shot erupts near him, but he's able to dodge the shrapnel. He circles around a small hill and lunges toward one of the riflemen. He swats the rifle with both hands down to the ground and, with his hands near his waist, unsheathes his American Eagle Head Sword, and slices the rifleman in one graceful move. Seeing one of the riflemen break off from the formation to slice down onto an American soldier with his hatchet, Pierre jumps in front of the attack and blocks it with his curved sword. He kicks the hatchet-wielding soldier away and pushes the American Soldier behind cover.

"Raah!" The hatchet-wielding soldier cries out and attempts to attack Pierre.

The Assassin sees the attack coming and uses his agility to smack his bracer into the soldier's wrist that is holding the hatchet, and then wraps his arm around his opponent's.

"Heh," Pierre cracks a smile for a split second, seeing the terrified soldier's face under the shade of his hat.

Pierre punches the soldier once and then quickly deflects a bayonet attack to the ground. The Assassin uses the opportunity to rip the hatchet from the soldier's hand and brings it down into the back of the neck of the rifleman who was just able to pull his rifle's bayonet out of the ground. Pierre spots a rifleman who is just about to take a shot at Pierre, who is exposed to him. Pierre, quickly, puts the former hatchet-wielding soldier in front of him using the grip on his arm and then grabs the hatchet's handle. The bullet imbeds itself into the soldier's back and the human shield dies moments after.

"Hrunh!" Pierre grunts as he rips the hatchet out of the corpse's neck. He hurls it at the rifleman and it strikes him in the head, killing him instantly.

Pierre throws the former hatchet-wielding soldier's corpse out of the way and uses his Eagle Head sword to slice another soldier's chest and then, using the momentum of the slice, turns his back to another soldier, stabbing him in the stomach. He backhands an advancing rifleman and then punches another soldier in the neck, effectively killing him. He grabs his sword out of the shocked soldier's stomach and spins around to face him, slicing his neck with his hidden blade in the process.

Major Heath, still watching Pierre fighting down near the shore and the HMS Royal Oak with his binoculars, stops and gasps slightly to himself.

"By God… he's like a whirlwind… he's killed eleven or ten men and he hasn't gotten a scratch on him…" Heath murmurs to himself.

 _And he Rode in on a Pale Horse…_

~X~

Two American Rifleman, one eighteen year old named Daniel Wells and one nineteen year old Henry McComas, are able to drive through the British line and onto the ramp leading to the main deck of the HMS Royal Oak.

"Aw man, Henry! We're screwed! We shoulda stayed with Major Heath!" Daniel yells out as he gets ready to shoot at any soldier advancing on him.

"Shut up Danny! Shut up!" Henry replies as he shoots a British rifleman near him. His jaw almost completely drops. "I killed that guy… aw crap!"

"Don't get squeamish on me, Henry!" Daniel yells and shoots hysterically at a British soldier, killing him as well. Daniel handles it a little better and grabs Henry's shoulder. "Run, man! Run onto the ship!"

Henry and Daniel both retreat onto the ship and start the long process of reloading. They kneel down on the ship, seeing that British soldiers are now spotting them on the deck.

"Shit! They gon' find us, Henry! They gon' find us!" Daniel screams at him as British soldiers start to walk onto the ramp.  
"Aw man… Aw man!" Henry frantically mutters.

Eight British soldiers, most carrying flintlock pistols, walk onto the ramp and smirk disgustingly at Henry and Daniel.  
"Told ya some yanks were up here!" One of them cracks, causing the others to snort or laugh lightly.

"Help! Oh sweet Lord, save us!" Daniel yells to the sky, still trying to reload.

Down below, Pierre, still holding off riflemen, hears the cries for help. The Assassin shoves a soldier away from him and stabs him in the neck with his sword before sheathing it. He pushes one side of the duster aside, which reveals a pouch. He rips off the front of the pouch, which shows a button inside of it.

"Let's hope that crazy old man, Franklin, was right about this," Pierre mutters under his breath as he sprints toward the boat.

The Assassin hits the button quickly and mechanical, electrically powered, spring mechanisms in his boots shoot him into the air, up above the boat's mast, and then back down. He extends both hidden blades and lands perfectly in between the two lead soldiers going to attack Daniel and Henry, killing them with his hidden blades.

"Holy shit! He came out of the sky!" One British rifleman yells.

"God is not on our side!" A soldier yells, slightly cowering in fear of Pierre.

"God is not here right now, Gentlemen," Pierre says calmly and springs out of his crouching position.

Pierre begins by stabbing both men next to him with his hidden blades, but uses the one on his left to catapult himself to the next soldier, slicing his neck with his free hidden blade. He withdraws his hidden blade from the body of the first soldier, letting him drop to the ground and uses the last soldier on the right as a human shield from the flintlock pistols of the two remaining soldiers on the left.

Pierre uses the now dead human shield to push into one of the remaining soldiers, who is slammed into the wall. Pierre keeps the soldier against the wall as he hurls a throwing knife into the neck of the other remaining soldier, killing him. He turns back to the other soldier and stabs him with his hidden blade in the head, killing him instantly.

"Hnh," Pierre snarls at the now dead soldiers as their corpses slump to the ground.

Suddenly, the door opens for three men, Rear Admiral George Cockburn (Pierre's ally), Colonel Arthur Brooke, and, leading the group, Major General Robert Ross.

"What is thi-Assassin! And American Soldiers!" Ross blurts out as he surveys the scene.

As fast as he can, Ross whips out his flintlock pistol and tries to shoot the Assassin, but Pierre, faster and more agile, unholsters his pistol and shoots Ross in the chest.

"Huchkl!" Ross sputters out and falls to the ground, causing Mr. Cockburn to take cover to keep up appearances and Arthur to kneel by his mentor's side.

"No!" Arthur yells out and his expression turns to one of sadness.

"Hhhck… Arthur… Arthur you need to lead the British to victory… hhh… you need to lead the Templars… to victory…" Ross says to Arthur, feebly grabbing his coat to accentuate his point.

"No Ross… no," Arthur murmurs as Ross' eyes close and he falls limp.

"Reposez en paix." Pierre says softly in his native language.

Arthur, trying to keep his composure, lets one or two tears fall down his face while he breathes heavily. He rips out his sword and stands up, baring his teeth like a rabid animal.

"Come on! Fight me like a man!" Arthur screeches frantically.

Pierre sighs softly and just as he unsheathes his sword, Arthur lunges at him and tries to slice the Assassin in every which way. Pierre is able to dodge, deflect, and block every one of his emotionally fueled clumsy strikes.

"I'm sorry," Pierre tells him with sincerity in his voice.

"Liar!" Arthur yells and slices at him again.

The attack hits Pierre's sword hard enough to rip it from his grasp, but to also rip his own sword from his grasp. Their swords clang to the side and they both look at each other.

"Die Assassin scum!" Arthur screeches and throws himself at Pierre.

Pierre and Arthur grab each other's shoulders and push against each other, trying to win in this battle of strength. They bare their teeth as they clash, Arthur fighting for revenge, and Pierre fighting for justice.

"Hrnh!" Pierre grunts and pushes Arthur off.

Arthur jabs Pierre once and tries to again, but the Assassin grabs his wrist and flips him over his knee. Arthur falls onto his back and then into a roll, immediately grabbing his arm injured by splinters from the wooden deck. Arthur releases a guttural growl and lunges at Pierre, grabbing his neck and clutching down hard.

"Rrrgh!" Arthur growls as he continues to strangle Pierre.

Pierre claws at Arthur's arms and hands, trying to free himself from this death grip of the templar's. The Assassin, now thinking clearly, stabs his hidden blade into the arms of Arthur, causing him to release Pierre's neck and cry out in pain. Pierre shoulder-checks Arthur in the stomach, pushing him back several feet.

"Guh… guh…" Pierre breathes out, getting to his feet.

Pierre and Arthur look at each other and suddenly, both are immediately filled with anger. They start toward each other, but a huge cannon ball shot shoots into the ground between them, blowing them both backward onto the ground.

"Hoofh!"

"Graagh!"

Both men hear an unrelenting beeeeep noise from the explosion. Pierre is able to get his hearing back first and looks over to Arthur, who has a large piece of wood stuck in his shoulder. He turns to the wide expanse of the battlefield to see the Americans fleeing.

"Retreat, men! Retreat!" The newly arrived General John Stricker yells to his men, organizing them somewhat.  
Pierre takes the opportunity to grab his sword and sheathe it. He sees Arthur get to his feet and look at him with total rage in his eyes.

"Au revoir, Arthur," Pierre says to the angered British officer and leaps off of the HMS Royal Oak to the ground below.  
Arthur rushes over to the side of the boat.

"I will kill you, you goddamned bloody Assassin! I fucking swear it!" He screams at the top of his lungs as gunshots and cannon balls ring through the air towards the Americans.

~X~

Major Heath, helping John Stricker to get their organized retreat in order, is on his horse, yelling out loud and pronounced orders. His sword, now black with soot, is still waving in the air, a symbol for the American people to get by on.

"Organize yourselves! Retain your dignity! You are Americans, not hooliga-" Heath tries to get the word "hooligans" out, but a close range flintlock pistol bullet is shot into his shoulder. "Agh!"

Major Heath is shot from his seat on his horse. He falls to the dirty ground, baring his teeth in pain and agony. The man who shot him runs up to his corpse, fully intending to finish the job if not already finished.

"Ah the bloke is still alive. Fine then…" The British soldier starts reloading his pistol. "I'll just bloody finish you off then,"  
The Soldier finishes reloading his pistol and cocks it.

"Last words?" He asks. All Major Heath has to reply is spitting on his shoes. "Well then, I see how it is,"

The Soldier starts to pull back on the trigger, but suddenly, a thin blade pokes through the area between his two eyes. His eyes widen for a second and then he slumps to the ground, revealing his murderer behind him.

"It's you…" Major Heath mutters, seeing Pierre standing behind the corpse with his bloody hidden blade retracting into his bracers. Pierre nods at Major Heath and helps him to his feet.

"On your horse, Major. You have a country to serve," Pierre says to him and helps him onto his horse.

"What is your name, young man?" The Major asks before he rides off. Pierre smiles for a split second.

"A shadow," The Assassin replies before whistling.

Seconds later, he sprints off. Heath watches him as Pierre's white horse gallops up to his side. Pierre jumps onto the horse's back and rides off into the forest's darkness.

"A shadow, huh?" Major Heath asks no one in particular.

Heath watches the forest for a moment before joining Stricker's organized retreat. He looks to the sky and the American flag being waved as the forces retreat. It's all shadows of something else. We are all just shadows.

 _And the Land of the Free…_

 _And the home…_

 _Of the…_

 _Brave…_

* * *

 _Yeah so I wrote this years ago and it's not great, but I decided to post it anyway. No harm in doing so._

 _Hope you enjoyed it. I may write some more AC stuff down the line._


End file.
